All the Bells on Earth

by James P. Blaylock

  Making up his mind, Bentley moved away from the shed, pocketing his flashlight and carrying the two jars and his closed umbrella. He looked behind him. Whoever it was had stopped near the house. Their light swung his way, illuminating the path. He hurried the few feet to the bread box, picking it up and darting away again, crouching behind the fallen outhouse. Opening the front of the bread box, he tilted it back and replaced the two jars inside. The light was moving again, darting out along the little path toward the garden shed.

  Bentley crept backward through the mud on his hands and knees, dragging the box and the umbrella along with him. His foot kicked the trunk of the big walnut tree, and he scuttled around behind it, peering out past the trunk. The two men had stopped to look over the shed. They’d see the trowels knocked down, rainwater on the wooden shelf, footprints in the mud….

  Sure enough, here they came, bent over and casting the flashlight beam in front of them, looking for him. They both wore hats pulled low over their eyes. One was big, heavy, but Bentley couldn’t make out his features in the darkness.

  “What the hell’s this?” the smaller one asked. He played the light along the edge of the outhouse, then shone it on the hole in the dirt. Bentley looked behind him. The shadows of eucalyptus trees loomed overhead, and the wire fence, choked with oleander, blocked his retreat that way. Wait them out, he thought, bending over and grasping the handle at the top of the box. If he had to, he’d run for it. He was in plenty good enough shape to get away—from the big one, at least.

  “Empty,” the small man said, looking into the hole. “Full of shit, just like you.”

  “That’s right,” the other one said tiredly. “This hasn’t been used for years, and it wasn’t knocked over last night, either. This is what we’re looking for, but someone got here first.”

  “Yeah, well, I think we’re chumps, out here looking around for something nobody don’t even know what it is. Let’s just bring him a goddamn bag of walnuts.”

  “That’s a good idea,” the big man said. He swung the flashlight slowly, aiming it into the trees. “I think he’s still here, whoever it is. The snoop. Look at this.”

  He shone the light on the ground now, the two of them bending down to have a look at something—footprints probably, or the depression made by the bread box in the mud. Bentley nearly got up and ran for it, but he held on. What lengths would they go to in order to stop him? He thought of poor Simms, dead, and he knew the answer.

  The thought of Simms galvanized him, and something stirred within him—a wild gladness, a righteous fire kindled out of nowhere. This was it. This was what he was paid for. Push had come to shove. He’d spent countless Sundays warning people about the Dragon; now it was damn well time to skewer the bastard!

  He stepped out from behind the tree, waving his umbrella in the air. “That’s right!” he shouted. “Here I am!” His voice was pitched high, from the excitement. He was giddy. Out of his mind. He shook his umbrella in the air like a Zulu, rainwater blowing into his face.

  The two men looked at him, apparently mystified by his behavior, the small one shining the flashlight beam into his eyes and then down to the painted bread box. The big one said something to the small one, who nodded, and immediately the big one set out around the opposite side of the outhouse, clearly thinking to cut off Bentley’s escape. The other one stepped forward, holding out his hand, palm up.

  “Hand it over, pops,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” Bentley shouted. And then, without another thought, he raised the closed umbrella like a lance and charged at the man, holding it stiff-armed in front of him. The big man turned around and lumbered back toward his partner, who threw both hands into the air in surprise, taking a wild swipe at the umbrella but missing it entirely. The blunt tip struck him in the chest, and the umbrella itself crumpled, its hollow stem bending in half as the ribs flew open, the thin fabric pushing into the man’s face like bat wings as he staggered backward, slipping in the mud.

  The fat man lunged toward Bentley, grabbing him by the arm, and the preacher flailed at his face with the open, broken umbrella, yanking backward and shouting scripture into the man’s face, wild verses out of Ezekiel. The man let go of him, treading backward and stepping on the fallen vent pipe from the outhouse, tripping and sitting down heavily across the outhouse door, which crumpled inward so that he sat in it like a drunken man sprawled over the sides of a canoe.

  Bentley turned and slapped the destroyed umbrella at the small man again, dancing toward him and stamping at him as if the man were a bug that he could crush underfoot, and the man rolled away into a clump of bare vines, holding his hands over his head and yelling, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

  Just then the door of the bread box dropped open. Bentley felt the contents shift, felt the weight of the door banging down on its flimsy hinge. He snatched at the box, trying to right it, but the whole passel of jars flew out, into the mud, into the bushes, raining down on the small man, who sat up now, grabbing at the jars. Jars broke against rocks, against each other, and the night was full of the soft sounds of escaping human cries, audible even in the rain and the banging around. The fat man struggled up out of the outhouse, his arms swimming, lurching to his feet and bending forward in a crouch, hands out in front of him now as if he meant to squeeze Bentley in half.

  Bentley flung the empty bread box at him, lashed the umbrella at his partner, then bent over and snatched up two of the jars. He turned to run, heading in among the ghostly trees. He didn’t look back, but high-stepped it down the path, squinting against the rain.

  They were following! Footsteps pounded along behind him as he wove through the trees, kicking through leaves, heading for the street with a jar in either hand. In school he’d been a sprinter, and although he hadn’t run in thirty years, he poured it on now, putting his heart into it, sucking air into his lungs, half expecting the snap of a groin muscle or the sudden tightening of his heart seizing up. But the sounds of pursuit trailed away behind him. They were giving up.

  And then he was out of the gate, into the street and loping down toward his car, running easily now, into his stride. Knowing he was safe, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following. Why should they? They apparently had what they were after. Thank God he hadn’t recognized either of them; that way they wouldn’t have recognized him either. There was no way Argyle could suspect him.

  He flung the car door open and slumped onto the seat, hauling in his legs, turning the key, and throwing the Toyota into reverse, careening backward toward the intersection at Almond, where he shifted into forward again and gunned away toward the Plaza. Then, on impulse, he turned up Shaffer Street, slowing down and switching on the heater, trying to catch his breath. He felt pretty doggone good, considering…. He hooted out loud and slapped the wheel. By heaven he’d given the Devil hell, hadn’t he? Grabbed him by the shirtfront and slapped his silly face for him!

  He felt real good, was how he felt—better than he had for years. He glanced down at the two jars on the seat beside him, their contents visible in the glow of the streetlamps. In one lay what looked like a severed eyelid, lashes and all. His smile faded, and on impulse he pulled into the parking lot of the Holy Spirit Catholic Church. The light was on in the sacristy.

  23

  “NOT UNTIL THE children are asleep,” Ivy said, dodging away from Walt. She headed into the bathroom, where she stood at the sink, putting her hair up with a couple of silver clips.

  “They’re in bed,” he said. “Snug as bugs.” He put his arm around her waist and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

  “They’re not asleep. They’re wound up like tops.” She pushed him out and shut the door in his face.

  “They’re beat,” he said, talking at the door. “In a few minutes they’ll be asleep. We have some important business to discuss.”

  “You mean monkey business, I think.” She opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in her kimono now. “Listen,” she said.

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nbsp; From downstairs came the sound of a giggle, then the creaking of floorboards—someone walking in the dining room, probably heading for the kitchen.

  “I’ll handle this,” Walt said, nodding seriously.

  “Thanks,” Ivy told him. “I’m about dead. I might wait up for you, though—if I don’t fall asleep.” She winked at him and sat down on the bed, switching on the table lamp and picking up her glasses and her book.

  Full of anticipation, Walt headed down the stairs. He’d take care of this lickety-split. Sometimes kids just needed to be told what to do—no messing around, no choices. Raising children wasn’t any kind of democracy….

  There was a light in the kitchen. He looked in through the doorway. Eddie stood at the sink, trying to twist the chrome plug into the drain. The water was running full blast. Nora had clambered up onto the counter, where she was squirting a heavy stream of dish soap into the slowly filling sink.

  “Hi,” Walt said, stepping up to the sink. “What’s up?”

  “We’re soaping,” Nora said, smiling big. She showed him the squeeze bottle of Ivory Liquid.

  Eddie pushed his pajama sleeves up and dipped his hands into the water, swishing it around to make bubbles.

  “Soaping what?” Walt looked around. The dishes were done, the counter entirely cleared off.

  “Soap,” Nora said. “See?” She picked up a double handful of bubbles and put her face into them. Bubbles clung to her nose and cheeks.

  “That’s good enough,” Eddie said, shutting off the water.

  “I think maybe it’s time for bed,” Walt told him. “Why don’t you start on this in the morning?”

  Nora’s face fell, and she slumped into a sort of rag doll position, as if most of her muscles had quit on her.

  “Let’s go,” Walt said. “Let’s hop into bed.”

  Apparently they heard nothing. Eddie swirled his hands in the soapy water, piling the bubbles up into towers. Nora reached into the sink and flattened the towers with her hands. Eddie built them back up again, edging his sister out of the way and blocking the sink.

  “Let me,” Nora said, trying to elbow her way in again.

  Eddie stood there immovable, saying nothing but clearly determined now to keep her out.

  Nora pushed him on the shoulder, but he set his feet and pushed back. Nora slapped him hard on the arm.

  “Hey!” Walt said. “That’s enough now….”

  Eddie dipped his hands into the sink and very calmly flung soapy water at his sister, who froze there on the countertop, her face suddenly full of a cold fury. She slid to the floor, her fists balled up, her pajama shirt soaked. She drew her hand back to slug him, but Walt caught her by the wrist.

  “I don’t care,” Eddie said, pulling the plug out of the sink. The soapy water swirled away down the drain.

  “You fuckhead,” Nora shouted at him, trying to jerk her wrist out of Walt’s grasp.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Walt said. “Haile Selassie! You can’t talk like that! Not in this house.” He turned her around and marched her out into the dining room. Ivy stood on the bottom landing, a look of surprise on her face. He shrugged at her. Nora burst into tears, pulled away from him, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. He could hear her sobbing in there.

  “Need help?” Ivy asked, widening her eyes.

  Walt shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said. “They’re just tired. This isn’t easy on them.”

  Eddie stood in the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. Walt walked in and leaned against the counter. He folded his arms. “Do me a favor, will you, man?”

  “What?” Eddie asked, folding his own arms and leaning against the counter beside Walt.

  “Apologize to your sister.”

  “She wrecked my tower.”

  “She just wanted her turn at the sink.”

  “She said … You heard.”

  “She didn’t mean it.”

  “Yeah-huh,” Eddie said. “She talks like that.”

  “Well, I think she’s kind of scared, staying here and all. You’ve got to help me take care of her. She’s little, you know? Don’t tell her I said that.”

  Eddie shrugged. “I guess,” he said.

  “Good man,” Walt said. “Let’s go cheer her up.”

  Walt opened the door and they went into the spare bedroom. Nora lay on her bed, facedown, as if she intended to smother herself in the pillow.

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said. “About the water and all …”

  She didn’t move, but her body shuddered from a quiet sob. Walt patted her head, wondering what to do. “It’s all right,” he said. “No big deal.”

  She put her fingers in her ears, closing out the world. He realized that she was still crying. What next? Pick her up? Roll her over? Threaten her? Where were her goddamn father and mother? That was the ten-cent question. One of them was pounding down another Budweiser and the other one was out looking for space. Shit. What a world.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to Eddie, who climbed into his own bed. Walt headed upstairs.

  “How’s it going?” Ivy asked when he had gotten back to the bedroom.

  “You better give it a shot,” he said. “I’m a dead loss.”

  “I bet you’re not.” She got out of bed and kissed him on the lips. He had the brief feeling that he was being taken somehow, that Ivy had set him up in some complicated and devious way, and was playing him like a fiddle. She disappeared down the stairs, and he sat down on the edge of the bed to wait. Five minutes later he heard her coming back up.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “They’re settled down. I promised them you’d tell them a story.”

  Walt gaped at her. “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Read them something out of that fairytale book in the living-room bookcase.”

  “All right. But you’re still waiting up for me, right?”

  “Why, are you going to read me a story too?”

  “Shucks, yes,” he said, heading for the stairs. “Just you wait.”

  “‘THERE WAS ONCE a man who had three sons,’” Walt read, trying another story. The first two he started had apparently been incomprehensible to the modern child. “‘The youngest of the sons was named Dummling, and on that account was despised and slighted and put back on every occasion.’”

  “What?” Nora asked. She wasn’t crying any more, but was sitting up in bed, wearing a pair of dry pajamas.

  “What what?” Walt asked, smiling at her.

  “What did that mean?”

  “What I read?”

  She nodded at him.

  “Well, there’s these three kids,” Walt said.

  “Name of Dumbhead,” Eddie said, snickering.

  Nora covered her mouth with her hand, giggling through it, happy again.

  “‘It happened,’” Walt read, “‘that the eldest …’”

  “The what?” Nora asked.

  “The … oldest,” Walt said.

  “The dummy one?” She looked confused, like she’d lost the thread of the story.

  “He wasn’t dumb,” Walt said. “That was his name.”

  “Why did they name him that?”

  “Dummling. They named him Dummling.”

  “Oh,” she said. She settled down in bed, waiting. Eddie picked at the flowers on the chenille bedspread. He looked tired, his eyes half shut.

  “‘It happened that the eldest wished to go into the forest to hew wood, and …’”

  “Didn’t he know he was the oldest?” Nora asked.

  Walt nodded, unable to puzzle her out. There was something amazing about the question, some element of it that reminded him of the kind of special lunacy you run across in a Zen koan. Nora was apparently a sort of cosmic mystery. “Sure he did,” Walt told her, closing the book. “He just wanted to cut some wood, you know?”

  “For his house?”

  “For a fire and all.”

  “It was cold,” she said.

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bsp; Walt nodded. “It was terribly cold. There was snow everywhere. So he got his axe and …”

  “How do you know?” Nora looked at him, frowning. “It’s not in the book,” she said. “It’s not in the picture. You’re making stuff up.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Don’t you want snow in it?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Walt winked at her. “So anyway, he got this axe and went into the forest. And his friend, this guy named … I forget. Gooberhead, I think …”

  Nora snickered.

  “… showed up with a bag full of rocks. And Dummling says, ‘What’s in the bag?’ And Gooberhead says, ‘Smart pills.’”

  “Was it?” Nora asked.

  Walt shook his head. “It was a trick.” Eddie was asleep now, still sitting up in bed, but with his head slumped to the side. “So Dummling says, ‘Let me have some,’ but Gooberhead wouldn’t give him any.”

  “He was mean,” Nora said.

  “Wait. They were rocks, remember? So Dummling says, ‘C’mon, Gooberhead, give me some smart pills.’ And so Gooberhead opens the bag, and Dummling takes out a handful of the rocks and puts them in his mouth and tries to chew them up.”

  “Mmm,” Nora said. “Were they candy?”

  Walt blinked at her. “No, they were rocks, like I said. They broke his teeth out.”

  “Oh!” Nora said.

  “And Dummling says, ‘Hey! These taste like rocks.’ And Boogerhead …”

  Nora burst into laughter, pointing her finger at Walt. “You said booger.”

  “I meant Gooberhead….”

  “Booger!”

  “Okay, but just never mind that. When Dummling says, ‘Hey, these taste like rocks,’ Gooberhead says, ‘See, you’re getting smarter already.’” Walt laughed a little bit. “Pretty funny, eh?”

  Nora gaped at him. “Where’s Uncle Henry?” she asked suddenly.

  “Why, he’s outside, in the motor home.”